


Ares, The Unwanted.

by Gevar



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8543701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: He’s a villain. He’s a monster. He’s a child of an adulterer god and a scorned goddess. He’s a fool.





	

He’s a villain. He’s a monster. He’s a child of an adulterer god and a scorned goddess. He’s a fool. He’s a menace. He’s so many things, and yet to his father’s and his siblings, he’s stupid. He’s Ares. God of War. Twin Brother of Discord and Chaos. The Unfavorite. He’s the Hated One. He’s no Son of Zeus.  And he’s misunderstood.

* * *

First-born son Ares. Or so what most version says. But he’s not. Hephaestus – the real first-born son, deservingly so – exists as a child of Hera mostly. His brother. Skin as though light and dark clashed in the blank sky canvas, to the shade of dusky Olympian. His large eyes of the lightest sapphire blue, gleaming as he stares with intense curiosity. Raven hair that grows into a sheep’s weave.

Beautiful brother, lame and ugly by Zeus’ standards. Zeus’ greatest shame. No, Hephaestus can’t be the man their father desired. He’s imperfect.

It’s only fitting that the boy as handsome as his father, as beautiful as his mother should be the first born. After all, they are first among the second generations of Olympians. No rumours to spread yet.

* * *

He always regret it. The first few years of desperately desiring to make Zeus proud. So much that he disobeys Hera, his mother. His world. Clinging to Zeus’ every spoken words like it’s the law and only rightful law. Hera is irrelevant.

But father grew despicable. Day by day. Year by year. Still Ares stands tall and proud. Zeus’ little defender. Mother knows nothing about Zeus and his noble intentions.

Ares turns his back when she calls out to him, hanging by the cliff, golden rope to support and torture her. Father’s wrath is terrible. Hephaestus – the real hero – sneaks water to mother. Attempts to break her out. No matter the cost. Crippled he is and will ever be. Ares hears his mother’s wrecked sobs, pleading leniency for her son too young to know better. “Ares did not disobey my words! He’s a better son!”

Sister oh sister, Eris is smart, picks no side, meddle none. Silent as a tree, she only sees. For Zeus’ strike still burns on her skin when it rains.

That’s the first Zeus praises him for a deed that twists knots in his iron stomach. And it’s his last. Those words never repeated again, even as he passes adulthood.

Zeus leaves mother sobbing and brother and his ugly legs twisted beyond recognition alone. Zeus does not return. Ares knows. Heart hampering against his rib cage. Hands trembling terribly as his uncle Hades appear next to his brother.

“Please do not take him away,” Ares pleads, with snot in his nose and tears blurring his eyes, hugging his uncle’s black cloak. “He’s so young, he does not deserve untimely death. Take me, I should be the one. Not him,” his boyish voice muffled by his face pressed close to the cloak.

Hades’ chilly fingers clasp around his tiny puny arms and hoist him in the air, “Hush child, I am not here to take your brother away from you,” his voice echoes, hauntingly and warmth spread throughout Ares’s bony body.

“Let us get your brother the help he needs,” his uncle says, his cracked lips forming a rare smile, it reminds Ares of his mother’s smile. And father’s too.

Zeus finally forgives mother. She spends days and days, year’s end, recuperating in her chambers. Ares enters, head hang low and full of guilt and shame. He does not speak a word. But mother does not ignore, calls him and cradles him in her arms, rocking him to sleep.

They wait for news of Hephaestus. The fall breaks his spirit. The lame god boy is now crippled forever. He says nothing. Stares blankly into the dark sky. Ares wishes they could go back laughing at the Titans at a time before he seeks father’s pride and approval.

* * *

He’s a little older now. Sees Zeus in two ways; light and shadows. The man mortals worship. The man knows no bounds as his desires concerned.

Ares learns from his mistakes. Mother needs him more. Father already has his replacement in the child he magically sprung. Athena – wise, strong and beautiful – his half sister. Zeus’s favourite.

* * *

His bastards fill Olympus.

First, Wonder Twins. Flaxen-hair, alike and different. She, a hunter. He, a musician.

Then, The Messenger. Lighted heart, quick feet. The joker.

The Drinker. The life pulsating at any party day or night. Never one to fail to make father laugh at his stupid jokes.

Love and lust are lost on her. It’s all the same. It’s all the difference. She reeks of sweet nectar and red roses. She’s beauty and desire all in one. She’s his lover. And the lover of many.

His favourite of all. His precious. The child he bore alone. Athena the Wise.

And a few delegate to minor titles. Not all awarded prestigious ones. To some, it is a burden. Not a gift.

* * *

They are mirror images of their parents.

Him bearing the face of a beardless Zeus, only difference is that he’s taller and leaner than the mighty Zeus. Father’s strong blue-eyed gaze comes off as a pale-eyed detached stare by Ares.

Eris too, taller than most women in Olympus, even towering over Athena included, wears mother’s face. But mother is grace, elegance and beauty. Eris is tact, crude and dull.

Cheap imitations of their parents. That’s what they are. A poor man’s Zeus and Hera. And that’s what they will ever be.

* * *

Ares sees it in Eris. Yearning for a recognition that Zeus will never give, perhaps mother too. She’s ashamed. That another child of Zeus and Hera procures an undeserving title.

Goddess of Discord and Chaos, is what Eris is. She’s feared. Much like Ares is. They do not see the sadness, desperation swimming in those sorrowful amber eyes. Those eyes that shut close, lungs taking a deep breath. A flicker of regret appears and disappears on her youthful face. Then all they could see; a malicious grin on her unrecognisable face addicted to chaotic bloodcurdling screams as swords, spears, shields and fists mix and mangle in throes of war.

And the Eris he knows, Eris his twin sister, is lost to the world for as long as the need for a Goddess of Discord and Chaos.

* * *

Ares, the God of War. The only child of a sacred union to hold a weighty title.

He laughs, hysterical. Every time a mortal prays during battle or wars. Who is it the mortal prays to, Ares or his sister-wife Enyo? Is it not humiliating that you two share the same title? That none of your siblings, full or half, share their titles with another?

He is God of War, and so is Enyo, Goddess of War. They are a pair. And yet they are two sides of the same coin. He bears the brunt of the people’s hate and their fear. She holds their admiration, their fascination.

They are contradictions. Of a coin named War. They are together, in battlefield only.

At the end of the day, Ares returns to his mistress who is more of a wife than his own. Enyo cloisters herself in the left wing of their humble abode. Taking no lovers of her wish. Mother’s daughter after all.

* * *

He covets his brother’s wife. Yes, he is after all, son of Zeus. Like his father before him, he stops at nothing to have Aphrodite warming his bed.

Stupid Ares. Stupid Ares, have you forgotten what mother said to you when there was none but only you two brothers?

He’s your flesh and blood. He’s your lame brother. Care for him as you would care for me. Let no harm touch him, be it the matters of heart or touches that strikes pain on skin.

Why can’t you listen?

Yes, why won’t he listen?

They fight; blows for blows. Hephaestus does not disappoint. Black-smithery does wonders for his brother. Lame legs supported by enchanted braces. Stamina strengthened by hours of slaving to carving the best of weapons.

Aphrodite makes one loses some sense. His senses return barely in time to pull back from striking his brother dead.

“I-I was not in the right mind,” Ares says, letting his sword drop like hot iron. Tripping over his legs, as he backs into the wall. He pushes his helmet off, blinking salty sweat in his eyes.

Hephaestus roars his laughter. Ares does it too. It continues, as his brother wipes a tear. Ares hacks a cough. The laughter continues until both are out of breath.

A strange turn of events. He’d hoped to end his brother once and for all. To win Aphrodite – his brother’s wife – as his own beloved. And now, they sit at Ares’ plaza, nursing fine ambrosia drinks.

“What would our dear beloved Enyo think?” Hephaestus muses loudly, casting mother’s brown eyes at him.

“She is going to mock me,” Ares groans mournfully, “And I will never live this down,” lips upturning to a grin.

Hephaestus scratches his chin, “What will you tell my wife?”

“That I lost. And she is still your wife.”

“And what if she demands another war?”

“Enyo still wishes to have a husband. Despite the rare time we consummate our marriage.”

“That is fair. I know my wife. Even she is afraid of Enyo. She will not ask twice for something futile.”

“I think I pay to see her taking on Enyo.”

“Will you bet on your beloved wife, brother?” Ares’ thick brow rose, end of his lips growing wide.

“Perhaps, but you and I are well aware that Enyo would beat her mercilessly.”

“I could not agree more.”

* * *

In the throes of war, as blood trickles over his face, and the iron rust fills his nose, Ares licks and bites on Enyo’s lips.

They part, hack and slash against enemies of Greeks. She dances in a frenzy, sword slicing skin too deep that blood spurts out like rain. He smashes his head against bronze breastplate ‘till mortal bones cracked and he hears sharp, broken ribs puncture lungs.

Eris shrieks into the dead sky. She cavorts on the dead bodies. Meat squishing underneath the weight of her feet. Blood smearing her cheeks. Bits of hair and teeth streak her hair.

Another battle ends.

Olympus does not sing for the valour of the unwanted. Olympus turns its eyes away for the victorious and the vicious. No halls will revere in their return from the battlefield. Only a mother deprived of dead children for another day.

And so, Eris fades into the room she claimed her own in Ares’s complex, blood dripping down across her wrist. “I wish to retire, brother of mine, until Hades knocks on my door and commands me to awake.”

They laugh. Tossing their uncle’s name like it does not warrant fear mortals cast on him. “I do not think uncle would be pleased to step a foot into Olympus, with the sole purpose to wake you up, sister of mine.”

And they laugh some more. Ares kisses Eris’s sticky forehead, tender and light. She looks so much like mother, pretty eyes that reminds him of honeycomb lit by the sun, and wavy braided long brown tresses.

“Send my wishes to Enyo,” she half turns to toss a look over her shoulders, “she hardly even calls me to celebrate.”

“I doubt Enyo is one to celebrate in the manner Dionysus would.” He grins, tipping his bloodied helmet missing its plume.

“Aye,” Eris sighs, and her voice echoes, “she is always one to celebrate alone.” 

Truth of the matter, they always celebrate alone. In the complex of his home. Just them three. Never in the presence of each other and the others. Each celebrating in their own way.

* * *

His feet brings him to a path he hardly takes. Or rather he never sees a reason to it. Not when he has beautiful Aphrodite to receive him as he returns from war.

But this is not the day. Aphrodite is back in the arms of her husband. Strange as it was, it is part of a norm that Ares never understands. He embraces it though. He rather has Aphrodite with his brother, than her vast nameless lovers.

Instead, his eyes feast on the bare back stained with uneven red. As though it has trickled on to the olive skin through her bronze armour, leaving her with stripes of a zebra. Mark of a warrior.

Her scent of sweat, death, and decaying flesh slowly dissipates into the air, as she dips into the pool. Only the finest ambrosia to wash off their latest task.

“Care to join me, my husband?” Her voice takes a dip, low and sultry, enticing him. He could almost picture the end of her lips parting to a sly smile.

“So tonight we are man and wife? Not siblings?” He questions, voice light and teasing. He pulls his greaves off from his legs, tossing them aside.

Enyo sinks deeper into the floral-covered pool, only her face hovers above water lilies. Her long hair piled on her head comes undone, spilling on her neck.

“The choice is yours,” she drawls, “but I will not allow any man, be it my brother or not, to step a foot into my chambers.”

Enyo straightens that her breasts stay below the floating flowers, and Ares knows that. A coy smirk plays on her lips, scooping a water lily in both hands.

He slips off from his cuirass, “Then the answer is clear,” and it clangs loudly against the marbled floor, and smiles a charming smile, “dear wife.”

Ambrosia splashing against his ankles, washing away grime and dirt off his skin. He walks further into the pool, that boyish grin growing wider. Enyo claps and cool clear water replaces the ambrosia. Water reaches up to Ares’s waist, he leans closer. His face inches away, she stops with a finger on his lips.

“Wash up,” she breathes into his ears, “The stench of war is still on you.”

Inhaling a deep breath, Ares dips his whole body and head into the pool. Resurfacing seconds later, he pushes his hair back and tries his chance again. 

Stopping short of her face, that his breath lays above hers, and biting his lower lip, “How about now, my fair Enyo?” She laughs in a way that freezes blood and thaws in the same breath. And yes, she laughs. Because Enyo is anything but ‘fair’.

She’s no Artemis. She’s no Athena. She’s no Aphrodite.

And Ares likes her for that.

Her hair bears the darkest shade of brown with a hint of red, so much that it might passes her as a child of Nyx. Eyes that so frequently shift from forest green to russet brown and at times to a perfect balance of emerald and honey. Skin that seen the sun and fought underneath it a thousand times.

“Take my breath away, my Lord,” is all she whispers. That’s all he needs. “As you wish, my Lady.”

His firm and callous hands around her waist pull her close, chest to chest pressing against each other. Lips on her neck, sucking it. Teeth on his ear lobe, nibbling it.

Her bed has only one master. Enyo herself. His bed has two; but she’s not one of them. The pool is fair game. They both sink to the shallow bottom, taking each other right there and now. Chaotic but tender. Reckless but gentle. Quiet but profound.

Devoid of love and lust, Ares likes to think so. After all, Enyo uses his body to how she sees fit. And the deal goes both ways. Enjoy while it lasts, the little voice in his head says. And Ares intends to.

He doesn’t stay in her chambers, flees to his own. As the deed is done. And for tonight, he sleeps a little better on mattress. Even when the space next to him is still empty.

* * *

Enyo is with child. His flesh and blood. Her first. All is not well.

Her eyes are dark-lined, as though she has not sleep in days. Her usually pinned hair hangs free. Her fingernails bear the tell-tale signs of her mind racing a million thoughts at once.

She’s hunched over her drawn up knees. Flickers a nearby water lily in a dazed manner. Arms hugging around her long legs.

He does not utter a word. Nor does he attempt to crack a joke. They stay in silence, side by side. Enyo stirs, splashing water against her face.

Their eyes meet and Ares sees a tired woman in those hazel green eyes.

“We are not supposed to have a child together, Ares.”

Ares runs his fingers through his hair. The implication’s not lost on him. But still, the ends of his lips curl into a rueful smile that doesn’t quite reach to his eyes.

“It will be no different than father and mother siring us,” he suggests, keeping his tone light. He takes her callous hands in his own rough ones.

“But we’re not mother and father.”

She speaks no lies. Ares is not Zeus. Enyo is not Hera.

“I suppose, there is truth to your words,” he sighs.

Ares favours no child, be they an Olympian or a mortal, and he loves them all. Enyo is not quick to anger for any woman he fancies. Then again Enyo doesn’t see him the way Hera sees Zeus.

“I am not fit to be anyone’s mother,” she murmurs.

“Do not say that,” escapes from his mouth, harsh and rough. He balls his hands into a fist, slamming against the water.

It takes her by surprise, and he’s amazed by his sudden reaction.

“I-I,” he pauses, taking a deep breath and unclenches his fingers. “That was very rude of me, Enyo,” he sputters, like a fool. Ares vows to never lose his temper in the company of his Hera-borne siblings.

“You are right. You’re not mother. But that doesn’t mean you are unfit. I cannot say this is the will of gods,” he starts, keeping his eyes on his fidgeting hands, “but I understand your fears.”

“A child of Wars. Ours. Will be suffer the same fate as I have and you. A miracle it would be if father bestows a title that benefits the child,” he continues, a slight tremble slips in his voice, “if I know Zeus all too well. God of Terror. God of Fear. Those are the titles our children will inherit.”

Enyo’s startled eyes soften. Hands stretching to reach his. Slim fingers intertwining, she strokes his thumb gently.

“And the cycle carries on,” she finishes for him. That is the real reason why she fears impending motherhood.

Among all six, Hebe the youngest gains no titles to be proud of. Just a mere ‘cupbearer of gods’. Yet she’s the apple of Zeus’ eyes and Hera’s.

Even Eileithyia sometimes slips from Zeus’ mind, despite his third daughter of Hera standing inches away from him. His eyes are either on Athena or Artemis, with an occasional glance at Hebe.

Her fingers graze his cheek, and her lips twisting into a small smile, “I do not doubt that you, my husband and brother, is the best father one could ever pray for.”

He finds himself mirroring that smile, “You could be too, my dear wife and sister.”

“As a father? That requires me to pull a Loki trick,” a chuckle rolls out from her lips effortlessly, “I am not a trickster.”

“I beg to differ,” he replies, grinning.

She whacks his chest all playful, “You are the one with the loose tongue.”

He rubs his chest with his free hand, setting his lips into an exaggerated pout.

“Did I wound you, oh mighty warrior?” Her lips parting to reveal fangs in a wolffish smile, “Did I strike fear or terror within you?”

“You might not,” says Ares, “but the child could,” and he sees the colour in her face drains again.

She closes her eyes and reopens, that Ares sees that rare glint between yellow-green and tawny so clear and serious, “You would love it as much as you love your children with Aphrodite?”

He leans close, his forehead touching hers, “I will not lie to make your heart dance with ease. But that child will never receive a love less than any of its half siblings.”

“Sometimes,” Enyo breaths out in relief, “you are more than the man our father is.”

He blinks away tears threatened to fall, kisses her knuckles again and again.

God and Goddess of War. Hardened warriors. Seasoned killers. Crumbling underneath the legacies of their parents. Worrying for the future of the unborn. 

“If only you are a simpleton farmer and I am just a woman of no stature, and perhaps,” she trails off.

“Perhaps,” he repeats, a little wistful. If he closes his eyes long enough and only listens Enyo’s heartbeats, he could almost see a different life where he does not carry the title God of War or as son of the Mighty Zeus. She may be a woman with soft curves and soft hands.

Her fingers playing with a stray lock of his hair, she mumbles, “We cannot stay here forever.”

“Indeed, we cannot.”

“Motherhood or not, my place is with the war,” Enyo reaffirms, her gaze steel and Ares will not challenge it.

“And I expect nothing less from you, sister.”

He presses one last kiss on her forehead, rising to his feet, “I will see you later. Zeus wants an urgent meeting with the Pantheon.”  


End file.
